The Fraternal Gambit
by samwise of tardis
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes; a rivalry with far more history than their recent battles with Moriarty. Two brilliant minds grudgingly working together for the good of England (and their own entertainment.) But beneath the banter, these brothers are locked in a battle for control that will bring into play all their friends and resources, and even their enemies... 12 chapters in all.
1. All Systems Go

**Chapter 1: All Systems Go**

_Sherlock:_

Sherlock Holmes stared out the window of the jet plane that was to carry him to his exile, and wondered how long it would be before his brother called him back _this _time. Sherlock was perfectly aware that he was not going to have to endure the permanent exile and probable death of his official sentence, and he was looking forward to letting his genius loose abroad for a while before Mycroft found a use for him and had him hauled back again.

Mrs. Hudson, had she been aware of the way the elder Holmes boy moved his brother around at will, would have called it shameful and unfeeling. She was half right, Sherlock reflected; Mycroft's actions were in no way influenced by the messy human emotions that Mycroft so thoroughly disapproved of. Mycroft's hatred of sentiment was second only to his hatred of chaos. And unlike Sherlock, Mycroft didn't even seem to experience boredom. Well, not anymore. Unbidden, the image of twelve-year-old Mycroft, already wearing a suit and tie everywhere, fixing his five-year-old brother with a look of annoyance and saying "For heaven's sake Sherlock, do stop being so willfully boring all the time." He would usually follow this by forcing sherlock to solve increasingly difficult puzzles, only to waltz in, smash them up, and do it himself in half the time.

He stopped doing this after Sherlock got frustrated enough to set fire to the cat.

No, if Sherlock was any judge, the only emotion Mycroft Holmes allowed himself was loyalty. Loyalty drove him to endure the torture of a Drury Lane production when their parents were in town. Loyalty drove him to officially hold only a low-paying position in the government he technically ran, and to choose the country of his birth as his domain instead of the more powerful countries of Europe.

Oh, and one other emotion, too...

The planes engines fired up, and Sherlock's eyes moved to look one last time at John Watson, his...his friend. Even after all this time, the word felt foreign on his tongue. _My best friends, John and Mary Watson,_ he thought. _I really don't deserve them._

Sherlock hoped that John had correctly interpreted the carefully coded message he had given him moments before.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That's the whole of it."

"The Game is never over. There are just some new players now."

"He was a rubbish big brother."

And, of course,

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

John had seemed pretty clueless, but then, that was what John generally pretended to be. But was it real this time…?

Then John caught Sherlock's eye, gave a stiff nod and a salute, and Sherlock knew he had gotten the message. He could trust the Watsons to carry out the Plan.

As the jet rose above the clouds, Sherlock allowed himself a smile. _The Plan advances._

"Your move, brother mine," he murmured. "Your move."


	2. Preparations for War

**Chapter 2: Preparations for War**

_John:_

John Hamish Watson stood by the runway and watched his best friend in all the world boarding the plane that was to take him away, "forever." Again.

Of course, John knew now, as he knew then, that Sherlock would be back eventually. But this time, he promised himself, he would not allow himself to doubt it.

…

When your best friend's big brother is Big Brother himself, it is very difficult to plan behind his back. Even setting up a code was dangerous, as Mycroft would be sure to overhear the key. Even with the variety of systems the two men had devised, the process of coded communication was infuriatingly slow: a military term here, a seemingly accidental emphasis of the wrong syllable there, a bit of Morse code blinked or scrawled on a napkin.

Then there was the night when Sherlock, using a carefully stacked game of Cluedo, informed him that he, Sherlock, was plotting suicide. John had been so angry he'd stuck a knife in the board before Sherlock could say, "Oh, come on, John, it isn't real, " and, with his back to where they were pretty sure the camera was, winked.

John was still halfway through his retort before he realized that this, too, was part of the code. "Setting aside that it is not possible for the victim to be the murderer," John said, "why on earth would he want to?"

"Impossible is just a word, John," Sherlock said mildly, "and people will kill themselves for any number of reasons. I know of a man who jumped out the window because someone brought a pineapple to his party."

This was not the nonsense it appeared to be. John knew that in certain areas, 'pineapple' was a slang term for a grenade.

So, he'd reasoned, Sherlock wanted to fake his death to somehow save a group of people. But further than that, he'd not been able to get anything out of his friend during the months of planning and preparation. When Sherlock suggested they play Cluedo again, John knew it was time to put their Plan into action.

Now it was happening again. But this time, Dr. John H. Watson was not in the dark. He knew perfectly well why Sherlock was going.

John looked down at the slip of paper Sherlock had slipped into his palm when they shook hands. It read, "up2u. Advance the game. U.M.Q.R.A."

Dr. Watson smiled.

This time, it was up to John to get him back.


	3. Counter-Intelligence

**Chapter 3: Counter-Intelligence**

_Mycroft:_

[Earlier that day]

Mycroft Holmes, unofficial head of security and justice for the United Kingdom of Great Britain, leaned back in his desk chair idly sipping a cup of tea, and considering carefully recent events.

It really was rather a nuisance that Sherlock had gone and shot that fool Magnussen. Why hadn't he stuck to the plan? But then, Mycroft had never understood his younger brother. Even as children, Sherlock had always taken offence to Mycroft's attempts to teach him, to challenge and occupy him; and yet the boy was so constantly bored that he was always getting into trouble.

Then there was the day Sherlock, age 17, had come home with a skull and refused to tell anyone how he had obtained it. That was the day Mycroft really began to worry about his brother's future. The boy simply got involved too much; he couldn't help himself. Mycroft had secretly hoped that his brother might learn to be more aloof when his pet dog, Redbeard, was run over by an HGV, but the self-enforced isolation which ensued did little to stem the tide of young Sherlock's delinquency.

Things had gotten better, for a while, once John Watson turned up. John's soldier instincts allowed him to keep up with Sherlock, even if his mental acuity was frankly deplorable, even compared to Sherlock's. At the same time, he had a keen sense of morality, and the force of will to keep Sherlock somewhat in check.

But somewhere along the line, it had all gone wrong. Sherlock had become too attached. He and Mycroft had argued about it many times, late into the night. But whatever Sherlock said, it was clear to Mycroft that John Watson was clouding Sherlock's judgement, and botched jobs like this were the result.

It had been a simple plan: Sherlock was to [carefully] drug the family, then steal his brother's laptop: one fastidiously prepped with GPS and several incriminating files, some with evidence of tampering masterfully applied beforehand. Mycroft would follow the signal to Magnussen's hideout, arrest him and Sherlock both. After severe questioning, Sherlock would be pardoned and Magnussen released in exchange for the incriminating evidence on Mary Watson and a document signed by Magnussen to ensure the man could not attempt to blackmail her ever again. Yet for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock had instead shot the man, and now it had all gone pear-shaped.

Mycroft had himself created and planted the files on MI6 Agent 43552, alias criminal assassin A. G. R. A, alias Mary Watson, nee Morstan. About a month ago, his counter-intel discovered that Charles Augustus Magnussen had been tipped off by an anonymous informant that Mary Watson was not what she seemed. Mycroft had acted quickly to erase all evidence of his connection with the agent, planting a thorough and believable dark past in its place. As per instructions, Agent 43552 had allowed her cover to be "blown" by Sherlock holmes, leading to his and John's acceptance of her as A. G. R. A, and to their willingness to help Mycroft pull in Magnussen and ensure the safety of his operative.

With Magnussen dead, however, there was no way to discover the informant's identity. Someone out there knew something about 43552. Mycroft Holmes had, for the moment, no way to ensure the safety of his agent.

He leaned forward and pressed a button on his intercom. "For the safety of the agency, I'm downgrading Agent 43552 to a sleeper cell. She is to maintain her cover until further notice." He allowed himself a brief smile. "Offer Mrs. Watson my congratulations on her marriage, and on a job well done."


	4. Subversion

**Chapter 4: Subversion**

_John:_

Dr. John Watson was a soldier. He'd been in service in Afghanistan. True, he'd been working largely in the medical tent, but he'd had more than a few days pinned down under fire. There had been ambushes, raids, air strikes, once even a clash with a defecting squadron.

He'd also seen a fair few spies come and go. Some were caught. Others were noticed quietly joining the enemy ranks during an ambush. Others were double agents, not really spying on them at all, but _for_ them. Dr. Watson had known many of them and interviewed them all, as part of the routine health inspection. He'd picked up how to tell when someone was lying about who they were. In fact, the battle that had broken out on his last day of active duty could have been totally avoided if his C.O. would have listened to his doubts about Corporal Roberts. He felt a twinge in his shoulder at the memory of that battle: six dead, three wounded, including the Senior Medical Captain, John H. Watson.

As such, John spotted instantly that Mary Morstan was not all she seemed. He thought originally that she might be looking for Sherlock. His friend _had _suggested that Moriarty might send agents to confirm Sherlock was not alive and in secret correspondence with John, and so John had played along, opening up to her about his feelings about Sherlock's "Death."

He was surprised and curious to discover she had no apparent interest in Sherlock, and was very supportive of John as he dealt with his emotions.

It had been 11 months with not a word from Sherlock. John was beginning to worry that he really _had_ died, or had been killed whilst doing...whatever it was he was doing abroad. John was able, through clever rewording, to talk about some of this to Mary, and she was a great help to him. By the time John had figured out fairly well who she was, it no longer mattered. John's intuition, along with some techniques he'd picked up from their own espionage unit back with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, told him that whatever lie she was living, her affection for him was as real as his for her.

He would have to get Sherlock to help him sort it out, if he ever decided to come back.


	5. Stalemate

**Chapter 5: Stalemate**

_Sherlock:_

It had been a year since Sherlock Holmes had faked his death. One year since he had apparently tumbled to an untimely demise. What did he have to show for it? Well, they hadn't caught on yet. He'd investigated three hundred twenty-six false leads, sixty-three traps and ambushes, seventy-two glaringly obvious red herrings, and, in disguise, one hundred fifty-three side cases. He couldn't help it. He was always sure to do so from behind the scenes, though.

_I must act as my adversary,_ he thought. _The hand of the player must never be seen._

He'd also evaded ninety-six of his elder brother's employees. This wasn't strictly necessary, but Sherlock enjoyed keeping Mycroft in the dark. Let Mycroft worry about him. Let it build up as no-one sees him for a while. Then, let some desperate agent catch up and, over coffee, feed them a string of entertaining lies.

But there had been nothing, none of these, for three months now. The impasse was getting frustrating.

Sherlock looked at his phone and resisted the urge to text John. _I have no idea where he is, or who is watching. _But, oh, it did hurt, having to keep John in the dark, too.

That was, however, one of the main reasons Sherlock was here. After that near-disaster with The Woman, Mycroft and Sherlock had argued nonstop for months over Sherlock's "dangerous tendency to attachment." Sherlock had insisted that his friendships were not dangerous, that he did not allow them to affect his judgement (though this was probably a lie). He had let slip; The Woman had taken advantage of the Holmes weakness: pride. For Sherlock, this was a need to be appreciated, to show off. And he had, just once, been a little too comfortable and done so with someone who, though enamoured of him, had been good enough to keep that from affecting _her_. Oh, yes, she was good, The Woman. She was so good, she had been able to love him and still be his enemy. Much as he had her. In a bistro in France, Sherlock raised his mug in a silent toast to her.

Mycroft had been sure it was attachment and not pride that caused the debacle. Possibly because of his own pride, he would not give credence to his younger brother's argument. [Mycroft did not need to show off because he knew he was far too good for anyone to keep up. He showed off by _not_ revealing how good he was.] Even when Sherlock deliberately and repeatedly used John, Molly, Greg (whose name he would never admit to knowing), Mrs. Hudson, and the others as test subjects for a drug without their knowledge; despite the heartless comments he was perfectly comfortable making, and the rather cruel, if amusing "experiment" he'd pulled at Baskerville, Mycroft Holmes continued to show disdain. Well, more disdain than he normally did, anyway.

It was when Mycroft began, very subtly, to threaten these people, that Sherlock knew drastic action was called for. And so, he'd begun carefully setting himself up for Moriarty to pick him off.

A few years out of the country fighting crime without telling his associates should prove his resolve, even to Mycroft.

He hadn't really left them in the dark, of course. John knew he was alive, as did Molly, who Mycroft had actually dared call "an insignificant nothing." She would probably have killed herself otherwise, fragile bundle of emotions that she was, and Sherlock would never have forgiven himself. Dear, sweet Molly; so entertaining to tease, yet possessing the courage and insight to stand by him when he needed her most. In defiance of Big Brother, she was brought in on the plan. The others could know it, too, if they only paid attention to the signs.

There was another reason Sherlock was out here. He had realized Moriarty's secret not long after their second meeting, and was out to prove it. Sadly, he was being blocked at every turn, bringing him back to this little bistro, his base for the past week.

A man walked in. First glance told Sherlock this was an agent of MI6, and a junior one at that; his inexperience showed in his failed attempt to mask his anxiety. Sherlock gave him the slip easily, pulling out his phone and sending his brother a short text:

_A jr agent? tut tut. dont let ur attachment cloud ur judgement, brother dear. -SH_

The text he received in return sent a shiver down his spine as he realized: _that is no junior MI6 agent._

He watched for a few minutes until he saw the agent scurry out of the restaurant, looking all around very conspicuously. He smiled. _The stalemate is ended. The game is on!_


	6. Regent

**Chapter 6: Regent**

[one week before the events of "The Great Game."]

_?:_

The man sat in his office-well, _an _office, anyway- his feet up on the desk as he used his tablet to read through the day's Tributes.

Tributes were one of the man's favourite parts of his job. He'd worked hard to become a name both feared and respected in the underworld: the Napoleon of Crime, they called him.

He adjusted his tie and grinned to himself. They had no idea. He had killed, extorted, manipulated, and blackmailed his way to the top. _And this time, there will be no Waterloo._

Having established himself as the the most fearsome lawbreaker in England, the man had then gradually built up his criminal empire. By now, every crook in Great Britain paid Tribute to him.

Amongst thieves, tribute meant money, yes, but also a report of their activities, advance notice of big heists, even tabs on local small-time delinquents. Everyone told the man what laws they planned to break, and when; and they waited on his approval, too. In return, the man prevented two thieves picking the same target on the same night, which was always messy and usually involved the coppers. He found the less-skilled miscreants and hired them to run interference for those with loftier targets. And he could be trusted to know when a certain job was a bad idea. Those who went against the man's advice always ended up chained to a table opposite Lestrade, one of the Holmes brothers, or, if all else failed to go wrong, opposite the man himself. That was one place a crook never ended up twice.

Ah, yes. Sherlock Holmes. Now, _there _was a proper adversary. The man had originally thought Sherlock, well, a bit slow; but he'd been gradually getting closer and closer to discovering the truth. And so, the man had had to get..._creative._

The man leaned back in his chair and listened to the muffled sobbing of Mrs. Brook, mother of Richard Brook, coming from the closet as she tried to scream through her tape gag.

He smiled. It was good to be king.


	7. Deep Cover

**Chapter 7: Deep Cover**

_Mary:_

Sherlock embraced Mary Watson first as he prepared to board the private jet. "Take care of him," he said. It meant, _I trust you to take my place. _

"Don't worry," she replied. "I'll keep him in trouble."

It hadn't been long after Sherlock's return that Mary had revealed her identity to Sherlock and requested his help. She was an MI6 agent keeping John alive in Sherlock's absence; Sherlock's return would surely be followed by reassignment as soon as would be inconspicuous. But although Mary had been assigned to John Watson, over time she had genuinely fallen in love with him. She had begged Sherlock to find a way to let her stay, without getting into trouble with Mycroft Holmes, who, by all accounts, did not tolerate emotions and could do very nasty things to those who crossed him. Sherlock had accepted the case instantly, as much for the chance to play his elder brother as to help his friend, Mary suspected.

She was puzzled, then, that he seemed to be doing very little, and after the wedding he vanished altogether. A fortnight afterwards, Mycroft called her in for a briefing. Cursing Sherlock's inaction, she had made her way to the random building chosen for the rendez-vous while John was at work.

Mycroft himself had shown up, looking unusually agitated. He informed her that a journalist of some considerable power, and who had a history of blackmail, was caught investigating rumours about the hidden identity of Mary Watson. Although she had no idea why, Mary instantly guessed that Sherlock was behind it.

"What do you intend to do, sir?" she'd asked, doing her best to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

"I'm going to allow him to find information about you, agent 43552." Mycroft had replied.

Fear gripped Mary's heart. Was MI6 about to disown her?

"Though it will not, of course, be the truth of your service here at MI6." Mycroft continued. "you are to take on the role of an assassin, who has had a rather grisly past and is now hiding from it."

Her boss paused and allowed himself a brief, humorless smile. "Once my brother figures out who you are, or rather, who you seem to be, I'm quite sure he will be only too willing to show off his frankly average intelligence and loose approach to the law to get Mr. Magnussen out of the picture. We will, of course, be uninvolved." Mycroft slid a USB across the table to her. "This contains all you need to know about your cover. You are dismissed."

"Sir," Mary saluted. Then, unable to stop herself, she added, "What will happen once Magnussen is removed?"

Her boss gave her a reproving look. "That is none of your concern, agent 43552. You are dismissed."

On her way down the stairs, she received the text, from a withheld number:

_Queenside castle is a useful tactic for protecting your king and queen from attack. Next, focus on removing the rook._

There was no signature. None was needed.


	8. Supplements

**Interlude: Supplements**

_Mrs. Hudson:_

Mrs. Hudson would be the first to admit she wasn't necessarily the quickest horse from the gate, but no matter what the man said, she doubted that Her Boys would send in a handyman to fix things _in her own flat_ without letting her know about it first. Sweet John was so proper about everything, he'd've told her so she wouldn't worry about strange men in the house; Sherlock wouldn't bother hiring anyone in the first place. Put that with all the odd things Her Boys had been doing lately, and she thought it very odd indeed.

So, in the interest of being hospitable, Mrs. Hudson invited the burly handyman in, and then went about brewing tea. _Special_ tea, she thought, with a private grin at the pun.

She brought the man a cuppa just as he began unpacking his toolkit, and she masterfully restrained a shudder at the unmistakable sight of a disassembled sniper rifle. Her dear Sherlock had gone through a phase, disassembling dozens of firearms and leaving the pieces all over the flat for John to sit on and shout at him for, but she _remembered_ the sniper rifle because the stock of one had somehow ended up in her jar of soothers, and Sherlock had shouted at her for "disturbing an experiment"; the nerve!

After leaving the tea, Mrs. Hudson bustled off to dust the clutter-strewn living room, carefully watching the large man in a reflective beaker as he expertly snapped the weapon's pieces together… and then drained the cup of tea.

_Special_ tea.

The man blinked once, twice, then keeled over sideways, letting out a loud snore. Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly and went about her dusting, quite glad that John had finally badgered Sherlock into labeling his chemicals. She hadn't even needed to sacrifice any of her precious soothers… this time.


	9. King's Ransom

**Chapter 8: King's Ransom**

[Five days before Moriarty's trial in _The Reichenbach Fall_]

_?:_

The man sat in an office again; his office, now, he thought smugly. The office's _former_ resident sat cringing in a chair deliberately chosen for discomfort, his eyes darting around the line where floor meets wall in an effort to stave off eye contact.

"I've done it," he announced, voice audibly strained. "The woman ate it all up, even the bits about that detective." He shook his head in disapproval. "Hasn't even seriously tried to get the other side of the story; _so_ unprofessional," he drawled, accidentally slipping into character for a moment, but a quick glance up at his… employer… quickly put an end to that. He shook himself mentally and steeled himself to, yet again, make the request.

Before he could so much as open his mouth, his employer said coldly, "No." Cold eyes pierced his soul, and the employee froze in place, unable to even blink. Countless forms of death and torture seemed reflected in the other's eyes in that moment, all of them perpetrated on the hostage; the one person left who still truly cared about his screwed-up self.

With a tiny smirk, the man leaned back, his long fingers steepling under his chin. Dominance had been proven, as evident in the former resident's rapidly greying face. After letting his subordinate squirm for a long moment, he replied crisply, "My decision has _not_ changed. As I have explained before, it would be a needless distraction from your current task, and I _detest_ repeating myself."

The employee barely restrained a cringe. "My apologies, sir," he murmured, his muddled accent sliding between octaves in a most disturbing manner. "The props should've arrived by now; I'll practice breaking glass."

The man leaned back in the expensive office chair and affected a sneer. "Get out of my sight."

The subordinate scrambled to the door, muttering thanks and apologies in the same breath, nearly running into the door in his hurry to escape the room.

The man nodded to the guards stationed by the door. "See that he's watched. Let him see that he's being watched, but be certain he doesn't see _all_ the eyes we've got on him." The two guards left the room to make arrangements, leaving him alone in the office with his thoughts.

Richard Brook had really been a brilliant find. He wasn't the sort to watch children's television, of course-it was painfully dull-and it was only due to a heist being carried out on live TV that he chanced upon the storyteller at all. He had looked into the man's eyes, and seen it: _potential. _Here at last was someone perfect for the role, someone who could be friendly-evil, with a voice that bordered on the neurotic. Here was a man who could be him, portray an idea of him so captivating, even Sherlock Holmes would not see through it-he wouldn't want to. This was a man worthy of the name: _Moriarty!_

And so, he had...acquired the man's loyalty. He was a family man, made practically of more pressure points than strengths. He had tortured, he had coerced, he had trained. Over time, he'd created a psychopath. Then, he'd released him into the life of Sherlock Holmes.

It had gone well for quite a while. He'd committed crimes so heinous, they made national news and struck fear into the hearts of criminals the world over. The Tributes had doubled, and even came in internationally; Moriarty was _Everywhere._

And now, this. He'd managed to fold this… setback… into his plans; the situation would be stable until completion. Still, it didn't sit well with him. Yes, it had been a good run, but the man wondered if, perhaps, it had now run its course, with the imminent loss of his main bargaining chip.

His 'Moriarty' would prove… unreliable… once these facts came to light (as was inevitable), and he was in a position to cause great damage to his plans. It was time to end Brook's involvement… on _his_ terms.


	10. Touching Base

**Chapter 9: Touching Base**

_John Watson:_

Of all the tedious and boring sports in the World According to Sherlock Holmes, Cricket was the worst, possibly second only to American Football. "What is the point?" he would say whenever John put it on. "They throw a ball at a bunch of sticks, then run back and forth until somebody knocks them over, and then they put them back up again. It's not even involved enough to count as physical exercise".

So when he had come home and found two tickets to the upcoming local match, with a note beside it from Sherlock asking him to meet him there, John was deeply suspicious.

Sherlock was waiting for him at the stadium entrance, his eyes taking in everything at once with that slightly unnerving gaze, as though trying to deduce what hid beyond the horizon. John was pretty sure he did it to look cool, though. The Look; it went with the collar and the cheekbones.

"Sherlock, what's-" John began as he approached.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock said loudly. "So glad you could come. I thought we could do with a day off."  
"But I thought you ha-" John tried.  
"Oh, just _look_ at your clothes, John! Tch. That will never do. Really, you ought to have at least the common sense to wear casual clothes to a sports game."

John looked down at his best suit, which Sherlock's letter had specifically asked him to wear, his suspicion growing stronger still. _Hm. I wonder…_

"Who are we playing against?" he tried.

A faint smile from Sherlock. "Why, London, of course. This is the quarterfinal game in the series. If we win here, we just have to beat one other minor team, and then we get to take on the _big _one."

Sherlock escorted him into the toilets, threw him into one of the cubicles, and ordered him to change into some "old spare" clothes Sherlock "happened" to have with him in a duffel bag. They were exactly John's size, and still had the labels attached.

When John emerged dressed in the new things, his own suit carefully stowed in the duffle bag, he asked Sherlock, "Look, what is all this about?"

Sherlock shook his head mutely. "Just going to spend some quality time and catch up on things. Whoops," he added, as he deftly tossed the duffle bag over the seven-foot chain link fence and into a ditch.

Dragging him on towards the seating, Sherlock continued in a much lower voice:

"All new clothes, so nothing is bugged. We're sitting in a completely different area than are on our tickets, thanks to a swap I arranged earlier. I, ah, might need to borrow some cab fare later."  
"You're lucky I kept my wallet, then," John commented sarcastically, "though I might need to ditch that, too."

"Oh, don't be paranoid," Sherlock said offhandedly. "Mycroft won't have bugged your billfold. There's never enough in it to conceal a mike, anyway. More importantly, Mycroft's agents are off on a little wild goose chase, and nobody's up top to notice where we really are and alert them."

"Why not?" John was struggling to keep up, both physically and mentally, with the conversation.

"Because I suggested to my dear parents that they ought to spend a bit more time with my elder brother. Right now, I imagine they're hearing the songs of angry men on the barricades, or some similar nonsense."

They took their seats in the stadium. "So, no codes?"

"For now, just once; no codes, no riddles. You can ask me anything."

"I take it you'll have done your deducing thing with Mary by now?"

"Sixteen times so far, yes," Sherlock replied, his eyes on the game. One of the players knocked over the wicket and Sherlock applauded.

"No, Sherlock, that was our wicket, " John told him.

"Well… whatever."

"So, Mary. Is she…" John struggled to find the right words and the courage to voice them.

"Is she hiding anything from you? Yes, she's actually an agent assigned to you by Mycroft to keep you from killing yourself during the period that you thought I was dead."

"Oh, yes, I already knew that," John said, rather ruining the dramatic reveal Sherlock had been expecting.

"What? How?"

"I used to treat spies in Afghanistan, I know how to spot them," John replied testily. "Now, about Mary…"

"But...how could you know who she was working for?" Sherlock interrupted.

John watched as England's bowler threw the ball a little too wide. "We discussed it over the England vs. New Zealand about a fortnight back. Good team, the New Zealanders. Particularly their bowler, Baggins or something like that." With a snort, John added, "Besides, who else could send in a spy without your brother spotting it and swooping in? No, what I was going to ask you was… well, does she really care about me?" This last came out a bit quicker than John would have liked.

There was a tense silence, during which Ian Bell scored six runs for England. John wasn't sure whether Sherlock was sulking or browsing his mind palace. Probably both.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"Sentiment...is not something I can properly predict all the time. Even when I know it's there, the source can be difficult to trace. However, considering she has hired me to make sure she isn't reassigned; considering the genuine panic when you were in danger on Bonfire Night;

...yes, I think those are signs of sentiment, don't you agree?"

In his seat, John silently melted with relief.

A thought occurred. "So, how are we going to do this? How do we get her out from under Mycroft's thumb?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "we have some planning to do."

And so, as the leather ball cracked against London's wicket, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson hashed out the Plan.


	11. Detour

**Chapter 10: Detour**

_Sherlock:_

Sherlock Holmes sat in the back of the modified Mercedes G-Class and wondered if he was doing the right thing.

It was an experience he had gone through only a few times in his whole life, and he disliked it as much now as he always had. He preferred to be sure before he acted. This, however, he simply couldn't make up his mind on.

Logically, he should let her die. She was a liability, a weakness. The fact he had travelled halfway around the world, dodging Mycroft all the way, was proof that she was still a danger to him.

The Woman. The one who'd beat him.

Irene Adler still fascinated Sherlock. Where Mycroft saw fit to disdain, where most people saw fit to disdain, She had seen opportunity. She had turned the exploitation into an art form, with lust her brush and glutton her canvass. She was everything Mycroft had warned him against.

Of course, Sherlock had been able to turn it all around, not only defeating the Woman, but also tying his mistake and its repercussions into the Plan. But the mistake had been made, and it was her. That was the end of it. He had refused her mercy then and he should not give it to her now.

And yet…

It was clear from the timing of her initial phone call by the poolside that Moriarty had set her up against a standoff. He must have been holding her like an ace for quite some time, not daring to use her too early because she was second only to had skills he could never possess; he, like the ringmaster, simply harnessed them. But what if she were sprung into a new circus?

Sherlock shook the thought out of his head. Irene Adler would never truly be mastered. Even Moriarty himself would not have been able to control her, had she taken a dislike. He knew that she was, and would always be, a wild card.

She was unreliable. The unreliable are sacrificed before they turn.

And now, by knocking out her executioner and taking his place, Sherlock had made it far harder on himself. He would have to strike the blow himself. It had to be done.

Something inside him said, 'Is it really necessary to destroy any who equal you, any who threaten or rival? No wonder Mycroft doesn't have any friends.'

But Sherlock did have friends, and it was a good thing he did. Were it not for them… Well. Beneath the turban, he smiled.

Unbidden, the image of Mycroft's typical sneer rose in Sherlock's mind, and his voice rang around his head: "sentiment." He said it as though it were not just a disappointment, but a virulent and disfiguring disease.

As the van pulled up, Sherlock made up his mind. He turned the volume on his phone up to full, and stepped out, the large sword over his shoulder.

It was going to be an interesting evening.


	12. Sigma

**Chapter 11: Sigma**

_John:_

"up2u. Advance the game. U.M.Q.R.A." John stared at the scrap of paper in his palm as the sound of the plane faded into the distance. It was up to him now. But how?

"What are you looking at?" asked Mycroft. John continued to look at the page for half a second longer, then looked up nonchalantly.

He'd never been particularly good at lying or acting. The ex-army captain was too straightforward for that. You couldn't lie to a grenade. All you could do was be out of the way when it was thrown. And he was very good at that.

Everyone knew that Sherlock tended to keep John in the dark. Most thought it was so he could show off more when all the pieces were in place. But it was actually because John preferred it that way. The less you know, the less you can give away... and the more real your reactions when you found out.

It was for that reason that Mary had shot Sherlock, something that wasn't in the plan. They were supposed to cotton on to Mary's false false past, rush to save her from Magnussen and his mysterious contact (AKA Sherlock), and 'accidentally' shoot the guy before that contact could be discovered. When Sherlock was admitted to the ICU, John had thought the plan had been compromised, and when he'd figured out what had really happened, he'd been furious. It wasn't until later that he realized how much that anger had accentuated their "argument" over Mary's past.

"Nothing much," he told Mycroft, as he extracted his wallet and slipped the paper carefully into it. "Just...an old memory."

Lying, no. Misleading...you could mislead an enemy. John had been doing it for years. Poor, clueless John Watson, always in the dark, always trailing the great Sherlock Holmes, little better than a loyal guard dog.

Well, John had actually _solved_ a case or two before Sherlock got the answer. He'd let Sherlock take the credit, of course, but thanks to John, who paid attention to every case that came through their door, Sherlock had already known about the bodies stolen for the Canterbury Project when he walked onto that plane. John might not have been able to stop Sherlock making the mistake that endangered everything, but it was thanks to him that the consulting detective had been able to save the Plan.

He hadn't lied to Mycroft; U.M.Q.R.A _was _an old memory. And a rather odd one, for the events at Baskerville had had little to do with the Plan, and the rather embarrassing U.M.Q.R.A. lead had been totally unconnected to the case.

...And, thus, the only thing that wouldn't have been reported to Mycroft.

Moving over to the car, out of sight of the others, John pulled out his phone.

Sherlock had bought John this phone as a Christmas present, to replace the older-model castoff from Harry. He'd kept the old phone for sentimental reasons, but he'd found the newer smartphone more useful.

It had a five-digit unlock code. John, knowing that Sherlock would break in anyway, hadn't put a lot of effort into his code. But now, instead, he entered the numbers next to the letter (86772). the phone lit up with the words "Sigma Code Activated." There was a pause as the program ran, and then a text message appeared on the screen.

John,

I apologize for all the pointless texts I've sent you. Each one contains a tiny coding error which the Sigma Code compiles into a single message. As this message was never truly sent, nobody can intercept it.

I haven't much space to explain. Your marriage was more important than the Plan, but the Plan must continue. When the time is right, send the text now in your outbox.

-SH

John glanced at his watch. Well… it had been about two minutes now. That seemed long enough.

"Send all?" queried the phone.

"Confirmed."


	13. Discover Check

_A/N: I never realised I'd never uploaded the final chapter of this. Wow. Sorry to anyone who was following it way back then._

_On the other hand, there's only been one new episode since, which doesn't disprove anything in this fanfic, so this seems a perfect time to bring it back and tie it off. Theories, feedback, and any other comments are welcome from newcomers and the original readers both. _

**Chapter 12: Discover Check**

_Mycroft:_

As John Watson ambled away from the runway, Mycroft Holmes noticed as the man pulled his smartphone from his pocket and began fiddling around with it as he leaned against the car. Given that Sherlock was not allowed contact with the Watsons during his exile, Mycroft guessed he was taking the opportunity to pen another nauseatingly sentimental blog post about "the bravest man I ever knew," or some similar foolishness. Personally, Mycroft didn't think Sherlock was particularly brave or clever; certainly, his brother was foolish to have allowed himself to get so close to someone in order to be thought of as such.

It was at this point that Mycroft's own phone buzzed. Due to the wide sphere of influence he held, in both national politics and security, Mycroft's phone had the same clearance as his laptop: censored information, intercepted messages, top secret project updates and so forth would all be forwarded automatically to his phone if not acknowledged in his office with his personal code. Likewise, any texts, voicemails, and ongoing calls were forwarded to any computer he was using with this code.

He opened the phone using a combination bio/numeric passcode, and read the text that showed up on his screen. It read, in Russian:

_Moriarty,_

_My agent is in place. Termination of Sherlock Holmes guaranteed. T -10 minutes._

Mycroft recognised the name on the tagline; it was that of a rather influential and corrupt member of the Russian Federation Council.

Mycroft did not panic. Mycroft _never_ panicked. He took a deep breath and considered his options.

He had about 9 minutes left before an enemy agent took out his younger brother for good. That was enough time for the plane to get well into East Europe airspace, where Mycroft likely wouldn't be able to get a warrant. He'd be lucky if they shipped the plane back. Of course, the agent could be onboard the plane, waiting until it entered enemy airspace so as to make a quick escape. Either way, the threat was real. He had to pull Sherlock out.

...But. He'd been lucky to get his brother exiled rather than executed, as many of the people in power (or at least, those who _thought_ they were in power) had a great dislike for both the Holmes brothers. If he pulled his brother back to English soil on his own initiative, he would be accused of acting out of self-interest, and his carefully-maintained position would be unbalanced and lost. He really _would_ only occupy a minor position in government then.

But he wasn't acting out of self-interest. He _wasn't_. The Russians wanted Sherlock dead, and if he sent the text forward to Lady Smallwood…

His finger was already hovering over the send button when he remembered that Britain's alliance with the Russian Federation meant he wasn't supposed to be spying on its politicians. No. He couldn't show anyone this text, either.

He sighed. There was no other option. His hands were _not _shaking. He was _not _panicking.

Mycroft Holmes pulled up a short video loop on his phone. It was a rather crude animation of one Richard Brook, accompanied by distorted audio of the man asking "Did you miss me?"

He had known, even as he planned Brooks "suicide," that he would need to bring Moriarty back one day. But he hadn't expected to need it so soon. The video wasn't ready…

Well, it would have to do.

When you practically run the British government, it is ever so easy to hack into the nation's broadband and override all channels with a short clip. Well, it was easy if you were James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, anyway.

When Mycroft had gotten into national security, he knew he would need to undertake some… less than legal measures to bring the nation's criminals into line. There was the old adage about the carrot and the stick, overused but psychologically sound. Moriarty was Mycroft's stick.

And his brother, too stupid to see that he was taking jobs from the same person perpetrating them, had been a useful watchdog, an additional stick that could do the dirty work whilst Mycroft smiled and did the paperwork.

Sherlock didn't suspect a thing yet, but the coincidental timing of Moriarty's return would likely ram suspicions through even John Watson's thick, sentimental skull. More than once, Mycroft had wanted, had so very much wanted, to put a bullet through said skull instead, but he'd never had a perfect alibi for it… yet.

One thing was for sure, Mycroft reflected as he prepared his "shocked" face. Sherlock Holmes would be returning to England, ready to poke his nose into all the wrong places.

Well, he'd just have to stop him, wouldn't he?


End file.
